


The Old Friends Tale

by owlbsurfinbird



Series: The Cambridge Tales [8]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Church teachings on homosexuality, College, Gen, Lewis Summer Challenge 2014, OC Dying of Cancer, Old Friends, Passages, Poignant, summer job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.”<br/>― Isaac Asimov</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Friends Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the_small_hobbit for Britpick and betaread!

**Interlude in Chapel**

**Cambridge, 1997**

Seeming somewhat embarrassed, the elderly man shifted from one foot to the other, holding a battered guitar by its neck. His skin hung on his slight frame, wisps of hair fluttered in the breeze, his colorless clothes were limp and worn. "Not mine," he said in an educated voice to Hathaway's inquiring gaze. "The guitar belongs to my friend. He'll be along. You understand, don't you, that we don't want the tour and that we want a bit of privacy?"

Hathaway nodded and said, "Sir, I can only go so far on the river." And you two are only going so far in my punt, he thought. 

The man smiled slightly, knowingly. "You needn't worry, young man. We won't despoil your punt."

Hathaway sighed. He really needed to work on masking his expression if it was read that easily. "Do you have a particular spot on the River in mind?"

"We'd like to be under the willow near Garret Hostel Bridge," said his friend, rushing up. The two men could not have been more different. This man was a decade or more younger and stout, grey-haired and impeccably dressed in a crisply ironed shirt and trousers; he had a friendly smile. His picnic basket held cut veggies, three bottles of beer, bread, cheese, and—

"Morgan. You bought Doritos?" said the older man, wonderingly.

"A little treat, Smithy. Tempest fugit." He handed Hathaway the basket and then accepted his help into the punt. "We would ask to go out to Grantchester, but I'm not sure we're up for handling the rollers."

Hathaway nodded his thanks—it usually took four able bodied adults to handle moving the punt over the rollers to the quieter portion of the river—and pushed off. 

Their backs to him, the two men settled comfortably against one another in the seat farthest from Hathaway's position at the stern. The guitar sat in front of them, waiting. It looked used, so he hoped that he wouldn't cringe hearing the man play. 

He glanced down: Morgan was feeding Smithy a bit of cheese, the temples of their heads touched companionably for a moment. 

Hathaway turned his attention back to the late afternoon river traffic. It seemed to be wall-to-wall punts here, and he watched one poler step gingerly across the tills of a bunch of punts to help a tourist who was staring at her pole a yard away from her punt; it stood straight up out of the river, its shoe stuck in the bottom of the river gravel.

Tomorrow would be his last day and he found that he had mixed feelings about the experience. He had three students lined up for tutoring starting Monday; topic: Keats, Byron, Shelley. He wondered about the two men before him. Were they friends? A couple? 

The Church had very specific ideas about the love between two men. He pushed the thought away, even as he pushed the pole, not wanting to think about dogma and dark ages here in the afternoon sunlight. Not wanting to think about private things wrapped in tissue. Not wanting to think about dark men. Not wanting to think about Will. Will who had a boyfriend and who was happy. 

James had his books and God and he was happier than he'd ever been, really. Mostly. Certainly happier than he'd been at Crevecoeur or school. 

And if he didn't have a lot of friends, he had a few and he was respected by everyone, if not well-liked by everyone. Paul said he needed to stop frowning if he wanted better tips. He wasn't frowning, he replied, it was the unfortunate shape of his face. He tried an experimental smile at a passing punt. No one smiled in return. Just as well.

The river water shimmered with gold, a gentle breeze made the leaves of the passing trees flicker. The bright stone of St. John's cut into the blue sky. The Backs took them past the colleges' verdant lawns, deep and cool in the shade of willows dipping into the water. The air was heavy with the lush smell of cut grass, loam, and trees.

"Oh, there," said Morgan, moving forward on a knee to pull the guitar closer. 

Hathaway skillfully guided the punt to the bank. The graceful arch of willow branches created a curtain of leaves; he lifted them aside so that the punt was beneath them. The afternoon sunlight shone through the bracts, the breeze alternating the sides, green and gold. 

"Perfect," breathed Morgan. "Thank you—James, was it? James." He made several adjustments to the tuning of the guitar and began to play.

It was a madrigal. James, leaning against his pole with his back to them, turned, surprised. A madrigal? He'd heard them played on mandolin, of course, and had heard madrigal-lite on the guitar, but this was intricate and true, beautifully scored and executed. It was utterly unexpected.

Thin dark willow branches laced the firmament, shades of green light shining through the leaves like stained glass windows. The river around them was molten gold.

Morgan was focused on his playing, Smithy was focused on Morgan, and James was focused on the two men, wrapped in the music together. 

He wondered how long they'd been together, their lives at college, how they managed everyday ignorance and discrimination. Did they go to church, believe in God? 

Well, one of them did, at any rate, or he had a love of early music. He couldn't envision Morgan as a music tutor—his guitar was in poor repair, his technique and the arrangement pulling the instrument out of tune too quickly. James knew guitars, was planning on buying a good one someday. 

He turned away, giving them their privacy. Perhaps they were history tutors. Though the history tutors of his acquaintance dressed better, as did the literature tutors. 

He sighed. It was reminder he needed to get his 'uniform' ready for tutoring. He'd taken his one suit to the cleaners and he needed to pick it up and iron his two decent shirts. Being a priest—at least there would be a uniform, of sorts. 

He didn't want to think of the freedom to dress as he wanted. Growing up on the estate had exposed to him to fine clothes and he envisioned—given the chance—he'd go out of his way to indulge in good tailoring, fine fabrics, and stylish ties. Not because he was a clotheshorse, but because it would remind him of how far he'd come, how far he wanted—and needed—to go. It seemed shallow, though, almost a character flaw, to want a visible reminder of his worth. As if his sense of self-worth was impaired. 

The lavender shirt from the hen party had a special spot in his cupboard. It was a nice shirt, if too frivolous and bright. He'd have to get something to go with it—lavender socks, perhaps. He could afford socks, if nothing else, and it made him smile slightly. No one ever paid attention to socks. 

Even as a priest he could have lavender socks, couldn't he?

He bit his lip, fighting a smile. The Mystery of the Priest With Lavender Socks.

Oh, well, no mystery there, really, if he was to write it up. The priest would be killed because he was gay and the clue would be lavender socks. In all likelihood it would be a hate crime of some sort. All because someone noticed the socks weren't black, blue, brown, or grey. All because the priest didn't fit someone's preconceived notion of 'man of God.' 

There was so much hate in the world, so much pain in the world. As a priest he wouldn't have to deal with the world at all except to help and protect the people in it.

People like the two men in his punt. He sobered quickly. 

"Why the sad face, James?" said Smithy, opening a beer. He held it out to James. "Here. Take it. Not likely to get a huge tip, we're poorly funded, after all, so partake of our largesse."

"And what are you reading, James?" asked Morgan, setting aside the guitar, and taking his own beer. The three men wordlessly raised their bottles and drank.

"Theology, sir."

Morgan hooted a laugh, beer frothing over the side of his bottle. "Oh! Delightful! We, too, study the mind of God."

"We do not," Smithy said indignantly. "We're physicists, James. Don't listen to him. He has this romanticized notion of unification theory, angels dancing on the head of a pin, as it were, with his equation being the pin."

"Do you work with Stephen Hawking?" James blurted and then ducked his head, thinking he sounded like a starstruck idiot.

"We count ourselves among the great man's minions," Morgan acknowledged, ignoring Hathaway's discomfort and Smithy rolling his eyes at both of them. "You've read his book? Perhaps—does that mean you've had Halsey? Lovely woman."

"I've never met her, actually, but I've been reading her ancillary book list."

"And what did you think?" Morgan had moved seamlessly into tutorial mode.

"Morgan, my dear man, we're not here to discuss God," Smithy huffed. "We need to hurry this along, you know."

"I know. It's nice, though, to talk about something outside of time and unification theory." Morgan gave his friend a sad look, and then brightened, artificially. "Smithy, you must eat something. While I play."

Smithy held up his bottle of beer and settled back gingerly against the cushions in the punt.

Seeing momentary pain cross the man's features, Hathaway glanced at Morgan, who gave an infinitesimal shake of his head as if to say, 'Best not to comment.' 

James turned aside, not quite with his back to them, angling the pole so the punt wouldn't stray from the bank. 

Morgan retuned his guitar and started plucking out another madrigal. 

Smithy groaned. "Codswollop. Give us something worth listening to."

Morgan grinned and changed the tune to something old, but not ancient. "Remember when we saw that little film, "Get Real", it was called, and you said—"

"Oh, God, no! Dear man, please, not this!"

The song was "Love is All Around Us" by The Troggs. Hathaway frowned. Somehow he didn't think either of these men was likely to have seen "Four Weddings and a Funeral," and the only reason he knew about the song or the movie was that it played everywhere for weeks while he was trying to study for A levels.

Morgan's voice was more heartfelt than on key, but he managed:  
You gave your promise to me  
And I gave mine to you  
I need someone beside me  
In everything I do  
You know I love you  
I always will  
"I didn't like it when I first heard it," grumbled Smithy. "Still don't. Miserable excuse for music." He leaned forward, pulling a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes. 

"You were with me when you first heard it. 1969." Morgan set aside his guitar. He smiled, blinking away tears as well. "Be right as rain in a minute," he said, rubbing Smithy's back. "Won't we?"

"Fuck. I hate dying."

"I know, Smithy, I know. I hate it too." He glanced up at James, as if he wanted a witness to ameliorate the emotional effect. He smiled, as if sharing a joke, "Fortuitous, though, that we should happen on a theology student in your last days on earth. If I didn't know better, I'd think God was having a bit of fun with you."

Hathaway's eyes widened. He chewed the inside of his cheek, flustered, not knowing what to say. He knew of a fellow in college who memorized poetry—reams of it—simply so that he would always have something pithy and relevant to say. 

These men had been friends—possibly more—for 30 years. And one was dying.

What does one say to that? 'I'm sorry' seemed grossly inadequate and far from comforting. It wasn't his place to say anything, surely, but to stand there without a word?

Thirty years. It was a tiny span of time as measured by the college buildings standing on the shore, but by the measure of a man's life, it was almost half. Hathaway was nineteen though old beyond his years, according to his few friends. What would it be like to have a relationship, a friend so close, for thirty years? 

"James. The time is out of joint. We need to get back," said Morgan, sadly, holding Smithy's hand.

"Good one," snorted Smithy, with a smile. "Double pun points. I have bone cancer, you see, and we both study time. It is not on our side, despite the song lyric. It is a finite resource. Keep that in mind, James. Carpe diem. Not everyone is as lucky to live as long as Stephen bloody Hawking."

James turned to push them from the shore and out of their sanctuary. Had this been an anniversary? An occasion? Or a moment of respite from the ravages of time? He couldn't ask—shouldn't have been talking with them at all, really, if he wasn't doing the tour. Some things were private and needed to remain so. 

He swiveled, pole in hand, holding back the branch of dangling leaves, as if he was leaving a chapel.


End file.
